Page 69 of Error Handling
“From 1802 to 1939 thousands of men, women, and children died inside the prison. Among the unsettled spirits still roaming the halls are a young boy who was accidentally shot by a crazy warden. Some visitors report seeing objects move, hearing doors slam, and encountering floating apparitions.”
Goosebumps rise on my arms, even though I’m toasty in my puffer coat. These stories always put me on edge, especially when I hear them on a quiet, dark Charleston night underneath mournful oak boughs shrouded in Spanish moss.
I lean into Chris and look up at him. His expression reads “interested but skeptical.”
Dontrell recites Cassie’s scripts perfectly. His gestures and inflections give a liveliness to the discourse that reminds me of a theater production. Very impressive. I meet eyes with Cassie and we both nod excitedly.
The tour continues to Blind Tiger Pub, where Dontrell relates the story of a woman dressed in black who appears and disappears. Some customers report having their hair pulled and hearing phantom steps when no one else is in the bar.
From there we move on to the Unitarian Graveyard.
“This graveyard is one of the most haunted places in Charleston,” I say, as we walk to the center of the cemetery. “Paranormal experts call it ‘Paranormal Central.’”
“What’s a ‘paranormal expert?’” Chris whispers. He uses air quotes.
“They study energy frequencies and set up cameras and stare at static on old-fashioned TVs waiting for communication from ghosts who eventually come and possess them and steal them away into their evil spirit realm.”
“I think you are confused with the movie,Poltergeist.”
I snicker. “You’ve seen that movie?”
“When I was a kid.”
“I was trying to freak you out.”
“I’m not freaked out yet,” Chris says.
“Are you a little unnerved?” I say, making a sweeping motion toward the overgrown gardens swallowing the headstones.
“Maybe a little.”
Dontrell stops us under a large oak tree with sweeping moss-draped branches. We stand beside several brick burial vaults that are low to the ground and topped with stone arches.
The air is calm, the cemetery quiet. Dare I say it’s deathly quiet? The absence of even the slightest breeze makes me feel unsettled.
“Many visitors have seen a lady in white. Her name is Lavinia Fisher and she’s believed to have been a serial killer,” Dontrell says, “She and her husband owned a hotel in town. They would get friendly with their customers and give them poison tea, ending the night by slitting their throats.”
Chris shivers again.
I laugh and offer him a reassuring smile, which I know is barely visible in the glow from Dontrell’s flashlight. In need of a little reassurance myself, I hook my arm around Chris’s elbow. He rests his free hand on mine.
“I think I could have done without coming in here at night,” Chris whispers.
“Same,” I say.
Truthfully, I’m undecided about the existence of ghosts. Regardless, this place gives me the heebie-jeebies. Maybe it’s the unkempt graves, or the green floating plasma more than a few of our guests have reported seeing. Maybe it’s all of it combined. Regardless, I’m ready to get out of here.
Dontrell wraps up a short spiel about the ghost of Annabel Lee, and I swear, the cold air becomes colder. The hair on the back of my neck rises as a brisk wind shakes the leaves on the oak tree above us.
Chris wraps his arms around me protectively. Someone in the group yelps. Dontrell’s eyes grow to the diameter of half dollars, and his mouth drops open.
As quickly as it blew through, the wind dies, and the air around us is calm once again, suffocatingly so.
“I think we’re done here,” Dontrell says.
Nervous laughs ripple through the audience.
All the blood that was in my head has puddled into my feet. I can’t speak. I just look up at Chris with wide eyes. We grasp hands, and with the rest of the group, hotfoot it out of there.